VIRTUE  jtete  #  w 


THE 
LOVE  SONNETS 
OF  A  HOODLUM 

By  WALLACE    IRWIN 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 
By  GELETT  BURGESS 


PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 

SAN  FRAN.CISCO  AND   NEW  YORK 


"A  Leaden 

Heart  I  'wear  since  she 
forsook  me" 


Copyright ,  1901 
by  WALLACE  IRWIN 


The  Tomoye  Press 


THE   LOVE   SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


INTRODUCTION 

"  Tell  me,  ye  muses,  what  hath  former  ages 
Now  left  succeeding  times  to  play  upon, 
And  what  remains  unthought  on  by  those  sages 
Where  a  new  muse  may  try  her  pinion  ?  * ' 

SO  COMPLAINED  Phineas  Fletcher  in  his  PURPLE  IS 
LAND  as  long  ago  as  1633.  Three  centuries  have 
brought  to  the  development  of  lyric  passion  no  higher 
form  than  that  of  the  sonnet  cycle.  The  sonnet  has  been  lik 
ened  to  an  exquisite  crystal  goblet  that  holds  one  sublimely 
inspired  thought  so  perfectly  that  not  another  drop  can  be 
added  without  overflow.  Cast  in  the  early  Italian  Renaissance 
by  Dante,  Petrarch  and  Camoens, '  it  was  chased  and  orna 
mented  during  the  Elizabethan  period  by  Shakespere,  and  filled 
with  its  most  stimulating  draughts  of  song  and  love  during  the 
Victorian  era  by  Rossetti,  Browning  and  Meredith.  And  now, 
in  this  first  year  of  the  new  century,  the  historic  cup  is  refilled 
and  tossed  off  in  a  radiant  toast  to  Erato  by  Wallace  Irwin. 

The  attribute  of  modernity  is  not  given  to  every  new  age. 
The  cogs  in  the  wheels  of  time  slip  back,  at  times.  The  classic 
revival  may  be  permeated  with  enthusiasm,  but  it  is  a  second 
edition  of  an  old  work  —  not  a  virile  essay  at  expression  of 
living  thought.  The  later  Renaissance  was  but  half  modern 
in  its  spirit ;  the  classic  period  of  the  eighteenth  century  in 
England  was  half  ancient  in  its  mood.  But  the  twentieth 
century  breaks  with  a  new  promise  of  emancipation  to  English 
Literature,  for  a  new  influence  has  freshened  the  blood  of 
conventional  style  that  in  the  decadence  of  the  End  of  the 
Century  had  grown  dilute.  This  adjuvant  strain  is  found  in 
the  enthusiasm  of  Slang.  Slowly  its  rhetorical  power  has  won 


THE   LOVE  SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


foothold  in  the  language.  It  has  won  many  a  verb  and  substan 
tive,  it  has  conquered  idiom  and  diction,  and  now  it  is  strong 
enough  to  assault  the  very  syntax  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  tongue.* 

Slang,  the  illegitimate  sister  of  Poetry,  makes  with  her  a 
common  cause  against  the  utilitarian  economy  of  Prose.  They 
both  stand  for  lavish  luxuriance  in  trope  and  involution,  for 
floriation  and  adornment  of  thought.  It  is  their  boast  to  make 
two  words  bloom  where  one  grew  before.  Both  garb  them 
selves  in  Metaphor,  and  the  only  complaint  of  the  captious 
can  be  that  whereas  Poetry  follows  the  accepted  style,  Slang 
dresses  her  thought  to  suit  herself  in  fantastic  and  bizarre 
caprices,  that  her  whims  are  unstable  and  too  often  in  bad  taste. 

But  this  odium  given  to  Slang  by  superficial  minds  is  un 
deserved.  In  other  days,  before  the  language  was  crystallized 
into  the  idiom  and  verbiage  of  the  doctrinaire,  prose,  too,  was 
untrammeled.  Indeed,  a  cursory  glance  at  the  Elizabethan 
poets  discloses  a  kinship  with  the  rebellious  fancies  of  our 
modern  colloquial  talk.  Mr.  Irwin's  sonnets  may  be  taken  as 
an  indication  of  this  revolt,  and  how  nearly  they  approach  the 
incisive  phrases  of  the  seventeenth  century  may  easily  be  shown 
in  a  few  exemplars.  For  instance,  in  Sonnet  XX,  "You're 
the  real  tan  bark!"  we  have  a  close  parallel  in  Johnson's 
VOLPONE,  OR  THE  Fox  : 

"  Fellows  of  outside  and  mere  bark  !  " 

And  this  instance  is  an  equally  good  illustration  also  of  that 
curious  process  which,  in  the  English  language,  has  in  time 
created  for  a  single  word  ("cleave,"  for  instance)  two 
exactly  opposite  meanings.  A  line  from  John  Webster's 
APPIUS  AND  VIRGINIA  might  be  cited  as  skewing  how  near  his 
diction  approached  modern  slang  : 

*Note,  for  instance,  the  potential  mood  used  indicatively  in  the  current  colloquial, 
"  Would  n't  that  jar  you  !  " 


THE   LOVE  SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


"My  most  neat  and  cunning  orator,  whose  tongue  is 
quicksilver  ; ' ' 

and,  for  an  analogy  similar,  though  elaborate,  compare  lines 
5  —  8  in  Sonnet  XI.  In  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  PHILASTER, 

"  A  pernicious  petticoat  prince  " 

is  as  close  to  "  Mame's  dress-suit  belle"  of  No.  VII  as 
modern  costume  allows,  and 

' '  No,  you  scarab  !  ' ' 

from  Ben  Jonson's  ALCHEMIST  gives  a  curious  clue  to  the 
derivation  of  the  popular 'term  " scab "  found  in  No.  VI. 
Webster's  forcible  picture  in  THE  WHITE  DEVIL  — 

"  Fate  is  a  spaniel;  we  cannot  beat  it  from  usf" 

finds  a  rival  in  Mr.  Irwin's  strong  simile  — "O  Fate,  thou 
art  a  lobster!"  in  No.  IV.  And,  to  conclude,  since  such 
similarities  might  be  quoted  without  end,  note  this  exclamation 
from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  WOMAN'S  PRIZE,  written  before 
the  name  of  the  insect  had  achieved  the  infamy  now  fastened 
upon  it  by  the  British  Matron  : 

"  These  are  bug's  words!" 

Not  only  does  this  evidently  point  out  the  origin  of  "Jim-jam 
bugs"  in  No.  IX,  and  the  better  known  modern  synonym  for 
brain,  "bug-house,"  but  it  indicates  the  arbitrary  tendency  of 
all  language  to  create  gradations  of  caste  in  parts  of  speech.  It 
is  to  this  mysterious  influence  by  which  some  words  become 
"elegant"  or  "poetic,"  and  others  "coarse"  or  "unre 
fined,"  that  we  owe  the  contempt  in  which  slang  is  held  by 
the  superficial  Philistine. 

In  Mr.  Irwin's  sonnet  cycle,  however,  we  have  slang  idealized, 


THE   LOVE  SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


or  as  perhaps  one  might  better  say,  sublimated.  Evolution  in 
the  argot  of  the  streets  works  by  a  process  of  substitution. 
A  phrase  of  two  terms  goes  through  a  system  of  permutation 
before  it  is  discarded  or  adopted  into  authorized  metaphor. 
"To  take  the  cake,"  for  instance,  a  figure  from  the  cake-walk 
of  the  negroes,  becomes  to  "capture"  or  "corral"  the 
"bun"  or  "biscuit."  Nor  is  this  all,  for  in  the  higher  forms 
of  slang  the  idea  is  paraphrased  in  the  most  elaborate  verbiage, 
an  involution  so  intricate  that,  without  a  knowledge  of  the  inter 
vening  steps,  the  meaning  is  often  almost  wholly  lost.  Speci 
mens  of  this  cryptology  are  found  in  many  of  Mr.  Irwin's 
sonnets,  notably  in  No.  V : 

"  My  syncopated  con-talk  no  avail." 

We  trace  these  synonyms  through  "rag-time,"  etc.,  to  an 
almost  subliminal  thought  —  an  adjective  resembling  "  verisimili- 
tudinarious,"  perhaps,  qualifying  the  "con"  or  confidential 
talk  that  proved  useless  to  bring  Mame  back  to  his  devotion. 

In  the  masterly  couplet  closing  the  sestet  of  No.  XVIII,  Mr. 
Irwin's  verbal  enthusiasm  reaches  its  highest  mark  in  an  ultra- 
Meredithian  rendition  of  "  I  am  an  easy  mark,"  an  expression, 
by  the  way,  which  would  itself  have  to  be  elaborately  translated 
in  any  English  edition. 

Enough  of  the  glamors  of  Mr.  Irwin's  dulcet  vagaries.  He 
will  stand,  perhaps  as  the  chief  apostle  of  the  hyperconcrete. 
With  Mr.  Ade  as  the  head  of  the  school,  and  insistent  upon 
the  didactic  value  of  slang,  Mr.  Irwin  presents  in  this  cycle  no 
mean  claims  to  eminence  in  the  truly  lyric  vein.  Let  us  turn 
to  a  contemplation  of  his  more  modest  hero. 

I  have  attempted  in  vain  to  identify  him,  the  "Willie"  of 
these  sonnets.  The  police  court  records  of  San  Francisco 
abound  in  characters  from  which  Mr.  Irwin's  conception  of 
this  pyrotechnically  garrulous  Hoodlum  might  have  been  drawn, 


THE   LOVE   SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


and  even  his  death  from  cigarette-smoking,  prognosticated  in 
No.  XXII,  does  not  sufficiently  identify  him.  Whoever  he 
was,  he  was  a  type  of  the  latter-day  lover,  instinct  with  that 
self-analysis  and  consciousness  of  the  dramatic  value  of  his 
emotion  that  has  reached  even  the  lower  classes.  The  sequence 
of  the  sonnets  clearly  indicates  the  progress  of  his  love  affair 
with  Mary,  a  heroine  who  has,  in  common  with  the  heroines 
of  previous  sonnet  cycles,  Laura,  Stella  and  Beatricia,  only  this, 
that  she  inspired  her  lover  to  an  eloquence  that  might  have 
been  better  spent  orally  upon  the  object  of  his  affections. 
Even  the  author's  scorn  does  not  prevent  the  reader  from  in 
dulging  in  a  surreptitious  sympathy  with  the  flamboyant  coquetry 
of  his  "  peacherino,"  his  "Paris  Pansy."  For  she,  too,  was 
of  the  caste  of  the  articulate  ;  did  she  not 

"Cough  up  loops  of  kindergarten  thin?'"' 

and  could  we  hear  Mame's  side  of  the  quarrel,  no  doubt  our 
Hoodlum  would  be  convicted  by  every  reader.  But  Kid 
Murphy,  the  pusillanimous  rival,  was  even  less  worthy  of  the 
superb  Amazon  who  bore  him  to  the  altar.  "  See  how  that 
Murphy  cake-walks  in  his  pride  ! "  is  the  cri-du-cceur  the 
gentlest  reader  must  inevitably  render. 

But  "the  Peach  Crops  come  and  go,"  as  Mr.  George  Ade 
so  eloquently  observes.  We  must  not  take  our  hero's  gloomy 
threats  too  seriously.  There  are  other  babies  on  the  bunch, 
and  no  doubt  he  is,  long  ere  this,  consoled  with  a  "neater, 
sweeter  maiden  ' '  to  whom  his  Muse  will  sing  again  a  happier 
refrain.  In  this  hope  we  close  his  dainty  introspections  and 
await  his  next  burst  of  song  ! 

GELETT  BURGESS. 

San  Francisco,  Nov.   I,  1901. 


THE  LOVE    SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


AN  INSIDE  CON  TO  REFINED 
GUYS 

Let  me  down  easy,  reader •,  say  I 

Don't  run  the  bluff  that  you  are  on, 

Or  proudly  scoff  at  every  toff 
Who  rattles  off  a  rag-time  con. 

Get  next  to  how  the  French  Villon^ 

Before  Jack  Hangman  yanked  him  high, 

Quilled  slangy  guff  and  Frenchy  stuff 
And  kicked  up  rough  the  same  as  7. 

And  Byron,  Herrick,  Burns,  forty, 

Got  gay  with  Erato,  much  the  same 
**  As  I  now  do  to  show  to  you 

The  way  into  the  Hall  of  Fame. 


THE  LOVE  SONNETS  OF  A  HOODLUM 


PROLOGUE 

XI/DULDN'T    it   jar    you,    wouldn't   it 

make  you  sore 

To  see  the  poet,  when  the  goods  play  out, 
Crawl  off  of  poor  old  Pegasus  and  tout 
His  skate  to  two-step  sonnets  off  galore? 
Then,  when  the  plug,  a  dead  one,  can  no 

more 

Shake  rag-time  than  a  biscuit,  right  about 
The  poem-butcher  turns  with  gleeful  shout 
And  sends  a  batch  of  sonnets  to  the  store. 

The  sonnet  is  a  very  easy  mark, 

A  James  P.  Dandy  as  a  carry-all 

For  brain-fag  wrecks  who  want  to  keep  it 

dark 
Just  why   their   crop   of  thinks   is   running 

small. 

On  the  low  down,  dear  Mame,  my  looty  loo, 
That's  why  I've  cooked  this  batch  of  rhymes 

for  you. 


THE  LOVE   SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


1 


CAY,  WILL  she  treat  me  white,  or  throw 
^     me  down, 

Give  me  the  glassy  glare,  or  welcome  hand, 
Shovel  me  dirt,  or  treat  me  on  the  grand, 
Knife   me,   or  make   me   think   I    own   the 

town  ? 

Will  she  be  on  the  level,  do  me  brown, 
Or  will  she  jolt  me  lightly  on  the  sand, 
Leaving  poor  Willie  froze  to  beat  the  band, 
Limp  as  your  grandma's  Mother  Hubbard 

gown  ? 

I  do  not  know,  nor  do  I  give  a  whoop, 
But  this  I  know:  if  she  is  so  inclined 
She  can  come  play  with  me  on  our  back 

stoop, 

Even  in  office  hours,  I  do  not  mind  — 
In  fact  I  know  I'm  nice  and  good  and  ready 
To  get  an  option  on  her  as  my  steady. 


THE  LOVE   SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


II 


THE  dead  level  I  am  sore  of  heart, 
For  nifty  Mame  has  frosted  me  com 
plete, 

Since  ten  o'clock,  G.  M.,  when  on  the  street 
I  saw  my  lightning  finish  from  the  start. 
O  goo-goo  eye,  how  glassy  gazed  thou  art 
To  freeze  my  spinach  solid  when  we  meet, 
And  keep  thy  Willie  on  the  anxious  seat 
Like  a  bum  Dago  on  an  apple  cart ! 

Is  it  because  my  pants  fit  much  too  soon, 
Or  that  my  hand-me-down  is  out  of  style, 
That  thou  dost  turn  me  under  when  I  spoon, 
Nor    hand    me    hothouse    beauties    with    a 

smile  ? 
If  that's  the  case,  next  week  I'll  scorch  the 

line 
Clad  in  a  shell  I'll  buy.  of  Cohenstein. 


THE   LOVE  SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


III 

AS  FOLLOWS  is  the  make-up  I  shall 
buy, 
Next  week,  when  from  the  boss  I  pull  my 

pay:- 

A  white  and  yellow  zig-zag  cutaway, 
A  sunset-colored  vest  and  purple  tie, 
A  shirt  for  vaudeville  and  something  fly 
In  gunboat  shoes  and  half-hose  on  the  gay. 
I'll  get  some  green  shoe-laces,  by  the  way, 
And  a  straw  lid  to  set  'em  stepping  high. 

Then  shall  I  shine  and  be  the  great  main 

squeeze, 

The  warm  gazook,  the  only  on  the  bunch, 
The  Oklahoma  wonder,  the  whole  cheese, 
The  baby  with  the  Honolulu  hunch  — 
That  will  bring  Mame  to  time  —  I  should 

say  yes ! 
Ain't  my  dough  good  as  Murphy's  ?     Well, 

I  guess ! 


THE  LOVE    SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


IV 

OF  ATE,  thou  art  a  lobster,  but  not 
dead! 

Silently  dost  thou  grab,  e'en  as  the  cop 
Nabs  the  poor  hobo,  sneaking  from  a  shop 
With  some  rich  geezer's  tile  upon  his  head. 
By  thy  fake  propositions  are  we  led 
To  get  quite  chesty,  when  it's  biff!  kerflop  ! ! 
We  take  a  tumble  and  the  cog-wheels  stop, 
Leaving  the  patient  seeing  stars  in  bed. 

So  was  I  swatted,  for  I  could  not  draw 
My  last  week's  pay.    I  got  the  dinky  dink. 
No  more  I  see  the  husk  in  dreams  I  saw, 
And  Mame  is  mine  some  more,  I  do  not 

think. 

I  know  my  rival,  and  it  makes  me  sore  — 
'Tis  Murphy,  night  clerk  in  McCann's  drug 

store. 


THE  LOVE    SONNETS   OF  A  HOODLUM 


V 


LAST  night — ah,  yesternight — I  flagged 
my  queen 
Steering  for  Grunsky's  ice-cream  joint  full 

sail! 

I  up  and  braced  her,  breezy  as  a  gale, 
And  she  was  the  all-rightest  ever  seen. 
Just  then  Brick  Murphy  butted  in  between, 
Rushing  my  funny  song-and-dance  to  jail, 
My  syncopated  con-talk  no  avail, 
For  Murphy  was  the  only  nectarine. 

This  is  a  sample  of  the  hand  I  get 
When  I  am  playing  more  than  solitaire, 
Showing  how  I  become  the  slowest  yet 
When  it's  a  case  of  razors  in  the  air, 
And  competition  knocks  me  off  creation 
Like  a  gin-fountain  smashed  by  Carrie 
Nation. 


THE  LOVE    SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


VI 


SEE  HOW  that  Murphy  cake-walks  in  his 
pride, 
That  brick-topped  Murphy,  fourteen-dollar 

jay;. 

You'd  think  he'd  leased  the  sidewalk  by  the 

way 

He  takes  up  half  a  yard  on  either  side ! 
I'm  wise  his  diamond  ring's  a  cut-glass  snide, 
His  overcoat  is  rented  by  the  day, 
But  still  no  kick  is  coming  yet  from  Mae 
When  Murphy  cuts  the  cake  so  very  wide. 

Rubber,  thou  scab  !   Don't  throw  on  so 

much  spaniel ! 

Say,  are  there  any  more  at  home  like  you  ? 
You're  not  the  only  lion  after  Daniel, 
You're  not  the  only  oyster  in  the  stew. 
Get  next,  you  pawn-shop  sport !  Come  oft 

the  fence 
Before  I  make  you  look  like  thirty  cents ! 


THE  LOVE    SONNETS   OF  A  HOODLUM 


VII 

MAYHAP  you  think  I  cinched  my  little 
job 
When  I  made  meat  of  Mamie's  dress-suit 

belle. 
If  that's  your  hunch  you  don't  know  how 

the  swell 

Can  put  it  on  the  plain,  unfinished  slob 
Who  lacks  the  kiss-me  war  paint  of  the  snob 
And  can't  make  good  inside  a  giddy  shell ; 
Wherefore  the  reason  I  am  fain  to  tell 
The  slump  that  caused  me  this  melodious  sob. 

For  when  I  pushed  Brick  Murphy  to  the 
rope 

Mame  manned  the  ambulance  and  dragged 
...  && 

him  in, 

Massaged  his  lamps  with  fragrant  drug  store 

dope 

And  coughed  up  loops  of  kindergarten  chin  ; 
She  sprang  a  come  back,  piped  for  the  patrol, 
Then  threw  a  glance  that  tommyhawked  my 

soul. 


THE  LOVE    SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


VIII 

T   SOMETIMES  think  that  I  am  not  so 
A    good, 

That  there  are  foxier,  warmer  babes  than  I, 
That  Fate  has  given  me  the  calm  go-by 
And  my  long  suit  is  sawing  mother's  wood. 
Then  would  I  duck  from  under  if  I  could, 
Catch  the  hog  special  on  the  jump,  and  fly 
To  some  Goat  Island  planned  by  destiny 
For  dubs  and  has-beens  and  that  solemn 
brood. 

But  spite  of  bug-wheels  in  my  cocoa  tree, 

The  trade  in  lager  beer  is  still  a-humming, 

A  schooner  can  be  purchased  for  a  V 

Or  even  grafted  if  you're  fierce  at  bumming. 

My  finish  then  less  clearly  do  I  see, 

For  lo  !  I  have  another  think  a-coming. 


THE  LOVE   SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


IX 

AST  night  I  tumbled  off  the  water  cart — 
-*— '    It  was  a  peacherino  of  a  drunk; 
I  put  the  cocktail  market  on  the  punk 
And  tore  up  all  the  sidewalks  from  the  start. 
The  package  that  I  carried  was  a  tart 
That  beat  Vesuvius  out  for  sizz  and  spunk, 
And  when  they  put  me  in  my  little  bunk 
You  couldn't  tell  my  jag  and  me  apart. 

Oh !  would  I  were  the  ice  man  for  a  space, 
Then  might  I  cool  this  red-hot  cocoanut, 
Corral  the  jim-jam  bugs  that  madly  race 
Around  the  eaves  that  from  my  forehead 

jut  — 

Or  will  a  carpenter  please  come  instead 
And  build  a  picket  fence  around  my  head? 


THE  LOVE   SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


X 


AS  ONE  who  with  his  landlord  stands 
-**•    deuce  high 

And  blocks  his  board  bill  off  with  I  O  U's, 
Touching  the  barkeep  lightly  for  his  booze, 
Sidestepping  when  a  creditor  goes  by, 
Soaking  his  mother's  watch-chain  on  the  sly, 
Haply  his  ticker,  too,  haply  his  shoes, 
Till  Mr.  Johnson  comes  to  turn  him  loose 
And  lift  the  mortgage  from  that  poor  cheap 

guy; 

So  am  I  now  small  change  in  Mamie's  scorn, 
A  microbe's  egg,  or  two-bits  in  a  fog, 
A  first  cornet  that  cannot  toot  a  horn, 
A  Waterbury  watch  that's  slipped  a  cog; 
For  when  her  make-up's  twisted  to  a  frown, 
What  can  I  but  go  'way  back  and  sit  down  ? 


THE   LOVE  SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


XI 

i~\  SCALY  Mame  to  give  me  such  a  deal, 
^-^       To  hand  me  such  a  bunch  when  I  was 

true ! 

You  played  me  double  and  you  knew  it,  too, 
Nor  cared  a  wad  o(  gum  how  I  would  feel. 
Can  you  not  see  that  Murphy's  handy  spiel 
Is  cheap  balloon  juice  of  a  Blarney  brew, 
A  phonograph  where  all  he  has  to  do 
Is  give  the  crank  a  twist  and  let  'er  reel  ? 

Nay,  love  has  put  your  optics  on  the  bum, 
To  you  are  Murphy's  gold  bricks  all  O.  K. ; 
His  talks  go  down  however  rank  they  come, 
For  he  has  got  you  going,  fairy  fay. 
Ah,  well !     In  that  I'm  in  the  box  with  you, 
For  love  has  got  poor  Willie  groggy,  too. 


THE  LOVE    SONNETS   OF  A  HOODLUM 


XII 

LIFE  is  a  combination  hard  to  buck, 
A  proposition  difficult  to  beat, 
E'en  though  you  get  there  Zaza  with  both 

feet, 

In  forty  flickers,  it's  the  same  hard  luck, 
And  you  are  up  against  it  nip  and  tuck, 
Shanghaied  without  a  steady  place  to  eat, 
Guyed  by  the  very  copper  on  your  beat 
Who  lays  to  jug  you  when  you  run  amuck. 

O  Life !  you  give  Yours  Truly  quite  a  pain. 
On  the  T  square  I  do  not  like  your  style ; 
For  you  are  playing  favorites  again 
And  you  have  got  me  handicapped  a  mile. 
Avaunt,  false  Life,  with  all  your  pride  and 

pelf: 
Go  take  a  running  jump  and  chase  yourself! 


THE  LOVE    SONNETS   OF  A  HOODLUM 


I 


XIII 

F  I  WERE  smooth  as  eels  and  slick  as 

soap, 

A  baked-wind  expert,  jolly  with  my  clack, 
Gaily  enough  to  ask  my  money  back 
Before  the  steerer  feeds  me  knock-out  dope, 
Still  might  I  throw  a  duck-fit  in  my  hope 
That  I  possessed  a  headpiece  like  a  tack 
To  get  my  Mamie  in  my  private  sack 
Ere  she  could  flag  some  Handsome  Hank 
and  slope. 

What  ho  !  she  bumps  !   My  wish  avails  me 

not, 

My  work  is  coarse  and  Mame  is  onto  me; 
So  am  I  never  Johnny-on-the-spot 
When  any  wooden  Siwash  ought  to  be. 
Thus  I  get  busy  working  up  a  grouch 
Whenever  heartless  Mame  harpoons  me  — 

ouch ! 


THE  LOVE   SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


XIV 

OMOMMER!   wasn't   Mame  a  looty 
toot 

Last  night  when  at  the  Rainbow  Social  Club 
She  did  the  bunny  hug  with  every  scrub 
From  Hogan's  Alley  to  the  Dutchman's 

Boot, 

While  little  Willie,  like  a  plug-eared  mute, 
Papered  the  wall  and  helped  absorb  the  grub, 
Played  nest-egg  with  the  benches  like  a  dub 
When  hot  society  was  easy  fruit ! 

Am  I  a  turnip  ?     On  the  strict  Q.  T., 
When  do  my  Trilbys  get  so  ossified? 
Why  am  I  minus  when  it's  up  to  me 
To  brace  my  Paris  Pansy  for  a  glide  ? 
Once  more  my  hoodoo's  thrown  the  game 

and  scored 
A  flock  of  zeros  on  my  tally-board. 


THE  LOVE   SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


XV 

I'm  not  canned  chicken  till  I'm 
cooked, 

And  hope  still  rooms  in  this  pneumatic  chest, 
While  something's  doing  underneath  my  vest 
That  makes  me  think  I'm  squiffier  than  I 

looked. 
Mayhap  Love  knew  my  class  when  I  was 

booked 

As  one  shade  speedier  than  second  best 
To  knock  the  previous  records  galley  west, 
While  short-end  suckers  on  my  bait  were 

hooked. 

Mayhap  —  I  give  it  up  —  but  this  I  know: 
When  I  saw  Mamie  on  the  line  today 
She  turned  her  happy  searchlights  on  me  so, 
And  grinned  so  like  a  living  picture  —  say, 
If  a  real  lady  threw  you  such  a  chunk, 
Could  n't  she  pack  her  Raglan  in  your  trunk? 


THE   LOVE   SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


XVI 

OH,  FOR  a  fist  to  push  a  fancy  quill ! 
A  Lover's  Handy  Letter  Writer,  too, 
To  help  me  polish  off  this  billy  doo 
So  it  can  jolly  Mame  and  make  a  kill, 
Coax  her  to  think  that  I'm  no  gilded  pill, 
But  rather  the  unadulterated  goo. 
Below  I  give  a  sample  of  the  brew 
I've  manufactured  in  my  thinking  mill: 

"  GUM  DROP  :  — Your  tanglefoot  has  got  my 

game, 
I'm  stuck  so  tight  you  cannot  shake  your 

catch ; 

It's  cruelty  to  insects  —  honest,  Mame,— 
So  won't  you  join  me  in  a  tie-up  match? 
If  you'll  talk  business  I'm  your  lemon  pie. 
Please  answer  and  relieve 

AN  ANXIOUS  GUY." 


THE   LOVE  SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


XVII 

WOMAN,  you  are  indeed  a  false  alarm ; 
You  offer  trips  to  heaven  at  tourist's 

rates 

And  publish  fairy  tales  about  the  dates 
You're  going  to  keep  ( not  meaning  any 

harm), 
Then  get  some  poor  old  Rube  fresh  from 

the  farm, 

As  graceful  as  a  kangaroo  on  skates, 
Trying  to  transfer  at  the  Pearly  Gates  — 
For  instance,  note  this  jolt  that  smashed  the 

charm :  — 

"P.  S. — You  are  all  right,  but  you  won't  do. 
You  may  be  up  a  hundred  in  the  shade, 
But  there  are  cripples  livelier  than  you, 
And  my  man  Murphy's  strictly  union-made. 
You  are  a  bargain,  but  it  seems  a  shame 
That  you  should  drink  so  much. 
Yours  truly, 

MAME." 


THE  LOVE    SONNETS   OF  A  HOODLUM 


XVIII 

T    AST  night  I  dreamed  a  passing  dotty 
•*-'  dream  — 

I  thought  the  cards  were  coming  all  my  way, 
That  I  could  shut  and  open  things  all  day 
While  Mame  and  I  were  getting  thick  as 

cream, 

And  starred  as  an  amalgamated  team 
In  a  cigar-box  flat  across  the  bay  — 
Just  then  the  alarm  clock  blew  to  pieces.  Say, 
Wouldn't  that  jam  you  ?  I  should  rather 

scream. 

Sleep,  like  a  bunco  artist,  rubbed  it  in, 
Sold  me  his  ten-cent  oil  stocks,  though  he 

knew 

It  was  a  Kosher  trick  to  take  the  tin 
When  I  was  such  an  easy  thing  to  do; 
For  any  centenarian  can  see 
To  ring  a  bull's-eye  when  he  shoots  at  me. 


THE  LOVE    SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


XIX 

A   PARDON  if  too  much  I  chew  the  rag, 
But  say,  it's  getting  rubbed  in  good 

and  deep, 

And  I  have  reached  the  limit  where  I  weep 
As  easy  as  a  sentimental  jag. 
My  soul  is  quite  a  worn  and  frazzled  rag, 
My  life  is  damaged  goods,  my  price  is  cheap, 
And  I  am  such  a  snap  I  dare  not  peep 
Lest  some  should  read  the  price-mark  on 
my  tag. 

The  more  my  sourballed  murmur,  since  I've 

seen 

A  Sunday  picnic  car  on  Market  Street, 
Full  of  assorted  sports,  each  with  his  queen  — 
And  chewing  pepsin  on  the  forninst  seat 
Were  Mame  and  Murphy,  diked  to  suit  the 

part, 
And  clinching  fins  in  public,  heart-to-heart. 


THE   LOVE  SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


XX 

T^ORGET  it?    Well,  just  watch  me  try  to 

shake 

The  memory  of  that  four-bit  Scheutzen  Park, 
Where  Sunday  picnics  boil  from  dawn  till 

dark 

And  you  tie  down  the  Flossie  you  can  take, 
If  you  don't  mind  man-handling  and  can 

make 

A  prize  rough  house  to  jolly  up  the  lark, 
To  show  the  ladies  you're  the  whole  tan-bark, 
And  leave  a  blaze  of  fireworks  in  your  wake. 

'Twas  there  before  the  Rainbow  Club  that 

Mame 

Bawled  herself  out  as  Murphy's  finansay 
And  all  the  chronic  glad  hand-claspers  came 
To  copper  invites  for  the  wedding  day ; 
And  when  the  jocund  day  threw  up  the 

sponge 
Murphy  was  billed  to  take  the  fatal  plunge. 


THE   LOVE  SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


XXI 

AT  NOON  today  Murphy  and  Mame 
*•*•     were  tied. 

A  gospel  huckster  did  the  referee, 
And  all  the  Drug  Clerks  Union  loped  to  see 
The  queen  of  Minnie  Street  become  a  bride, 
And  that  bad  actor,  Murphy,  by  her  side, 
Standing  where  Yours  Despondent  ought 

to  be. 

I  went  to  hang  a  smile  in  front  of  me, 
But  weeps  were  in  my  glimmers  when  I 

tried. 

The  pastor  murmured,  "  Two  and  two  make 

one," 

And  slipped  a  sixteen  K  on  Mamie's  grab; 
And  when  the  game  was  tied  and  all  was 

done 

The  guests  shied  footwear  at  the  bridal  cab, 
And  Murphy's  little  gilt-roofed  brother  Jim 
Snickered,  "  She's  left  her  happy  home  for 

him." 


THE  LOVE   SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


XXII 

G TILL  joy  is  rubbernecking  on  the  street, 
^     Still  hikes  the  Mags'  parade  at  five 

o'clock, 
Still  does  the  masher  march  around  the 

block 

Pining  in  vain  some  hothouse  plant  to  meet ; 
Still  does  the  rounder  pull  your  leg  to  treat, 
Where  flows  the  whisky  sour  or  russet  bock, 
And  the  store  clothing  dummies  in  a  flock 
Keep  good  and  busy  following  their  feet. 

Rats  !  cut  this  out;  for  I'm  a  last  year's 

champ ; 

Into  the  old  bone  orchard  am  I  blowing, 
So  with  the  late  lamented  let  me  camp, 
My  walkers  to  the  graveyard  daisies  toeing, 
And  shaking  this  too  upish  generation, 
Pass  checks  through  cigarette  asphyxiation. 


THE  LOVE   SONNETS   OF  A   HOODLUM 


EPILOGUE 

x  I  VO  JUST  one  girl  I've  tuned  my  sad 

bazoo, 

Stringing  my  pipe-dream  off  as  it  occurred, 
And  as  I've  tipped  the  straight  talk  every 

word, 

If  you  don't  like  it  you  know  what  to  do. 
Perhaps  you  think  I've  handed  out  to  you 
An  idle  jest,  a  touch-me-not,  absurd 
As  any  sky-blue-pink  canary  bird, 
Billed  for  a  record  season  at  the  Zoo. 

If  that's  your  guess  you'll  have  to  guess 

again, 

For  thus  I  fizzled  in  a  burst  of  glory, 
And  this  rhythmatic  side-show  doth  contain 
The  sum  and  substance  of  my  hard-luck 

story, 

Showing  how  Vanity  is  still  on  deck 
And  Humble  Virtue  gets  it  in  the  neck. 


F 


M 


